


a mouthful

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cunnilingus, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 01, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martin and Tim put in some overtime.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88
Collections: Anonymous





	a mouthful

**Author's Note:**

> written by request as thanks for donating to the louisville bail project!
> 
> martin is trans, and words used for his body include: cunt, cock/dick, entrance, lips, folds.

Once per quarter, an email comes around from Elias and the board to the Archives and Research teams, designating an evening on which they will all stay late to take an updated inventory of the library. Things come in and out so often, books are checked out and never returned, frustrated university students spill coffee and alcohol on the potentially-cursed nineteenth century tomes, et cetera. No overtime, but they can order in on the Institute’s dime, at least, and Martin likes the Research staff. There’s been some turnover since he was there. 

While Jon and Sasha grumble their way through their assigned sections and take off as soon as possible--around seven o’clock, without even waiting for the free Indian takeaway--he finds himself working with Tim and a Research girl in a dusty back section of the first story shelves, quite enjoying himself. The girl--he thinks her name is May, but he didn’t quite catch it--is really nice, and once Tim gets someone going on a commiseration streak, Martin knows, it can last into the wee hours. Nothing is more cathartic than complaining about your job with your coworkers; Tim is a master of it. Martin doesn’t think he’s laughed and groaned this much in equal measure in months.

It’s a good night. He feels comfortable and welcome--doesn’t feel the urge to stick to Tim’s side like a parasite as he usually might at company dos. He sits across from Tim, May, and some other folks from Research with his chicken korma, is content, mostly, to eat and smile at their jokes and laugh when it’s appropriate. 

They’re talking about weekend plans, which becomes hobbies, which becomes workout routines, which becomes diet talk. Not Martin’s favorite subject, but everybody’s taking it mostly lightly. Two of the Research guys, slightly more muscular than one might expect academics to be, are bitching about keto. May catches his eye and rolls hers. 

“I can’t do it, I really can’t. I’m about to give it all up.”

“I’m hearing more about paleo anyway--”

“What?”

“Paleo, you know, paleolithic.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that is.”

Tim is having a conversation across them with another girl further down the table; Martin hears something about snowshoeing. She laughs at something he’s said and puts her hand on his arm. Martin eats a forkful of rice and looks at it.

“What about you, Stoker?”

“Eh?”

“How do you keep that  _ godlike figure  _ these days?” The Research guy is joking, grinning, but Martin catches the flicker of his eyes up and down Tim’s body, over in an instant. He eats another forkful of rice, slowly.

“Oh, you know me,” Tim says, leaning back from the table, arms open. “I’m a renaissance man. Lately it’s rowing.”

“Rowing?”

“And fucking, eh,” crows another one of the Research guys, and Tim winks at him. They’re laughing. Fists are bumped. Martin pushes a bit of chicken through the sauce. Under the table, May kicks his leg briefly, lifts her eyebrows at him, as if asking what’s wrong. He shrugs.

“Sure, sure, and fucking,” says Tim. He settles his elbows back on the table, stabs a bit of his aloo gobi and pops it into his mouth. “Best exercise there is.” He’s joking, but he looks at Martin while he chews, straight in the eyes, and whatever bit of jealousy Martin thinks he might have been feeling melts, starts to drain down his chest. He swallows, looks down into his food.

The two Research guys are back to complaining about keto again. Someone to Tim’s right, who Martin doesn’t know, asks him something, and Tim leans his head back, as if in thought. Martin looks at the expanse of his throat. His Adam’s apple. Fuck. They’ve still got work to do after dinner, but--

“Eh, mostly veg these days. But I’m awful about it,” Tim says. The person who asked shrugs in sympathy. “Work stress and all--sometimes you just need to eat out, you know?”

It takes Martin a second to realize Tim is looking at him again. Smiling a little. Oh, God. He winks, too quickly for anyone else to see it. Martin feels another foot under the table, against his leg. It’s not May’s this time. It’s too far up his calf for that.

He clears his throat. He eats the rest of his chicken at an entirely normal and reasonable pace.

* * *

  
  


“Was I really that obvious?”

“Babe.” Tim laughs into the crook of his neck. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Martin frowns. “You know I get jealous.”

“Aww. But you know I only have eyes for you, right?”

“Sure.”

Tim stops fumbling at Martin’s belt for a minute, long enough to look him in the face. His brows knit together for a second, suddenly serious. “I mean it.”

“You don’t, though,” Martin says, but not with any conviction. “I mean, it’s not like we’re exclusive. But you do flirt an awful lot. And--I don’t  _ care,  _ I mean--like I said--but, you know.”

Tim finally gets Martin’s belt off and slides his hands inside Martin’s newly-loosened waistband. He feels over-full from dinner and with butterflies in his stomach besides. They’re up in a storage closet on the third floor that barely has enough room to contain its mops and buckets, let alone two grown men, but they’ve managed to squash down enough boxes and scramble and reconfigure for Martin to be half-lying-down, Tim on his knees, working his trousers off. He’s flushed and still only a little wet, but he glances at the sliver of light under the door, imagines a pair of shoes--May’s, maybe--pausing there, blocking it out--shivers. Tim’s cool, calloused hand slides easily between his legs, cups him, rubs a little back and forth over him.

“Fuck.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Tim says, kissing Martin’s neck again, softer this time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it hurt your feelings.”

Martin makes a noise of protest--it’s hard to explain what he  _ actually  _ means with Tim’s hand down his pants and a mop handle pressing into his knee. He leans up as much as he can, bracing his elbows on the storage shelf and the cardboard box behind him, watching Tim wrap his fingers around the waist of Martin’s trousers and ease them down over his thighs. It’s cold in the storage room and he sees the hairs on his legs stand to attention immediately. His boxers off next, and he flushes hot the way he always does when he’s exposed like this, awkwardly, semi-publicly, at someone else’s mercy.

“You’re cute like this,” Tim says, running his hands over the goosebumps on Martin’s legs. He grins up at him, a little wickedly. “I could do with some more takeaway, if you know what I mean.”

“Shut up,” Martin groans, half-laughing.

“Go for a bite.”

“You’re the worst.”

“What? I thought it was a great joke.”

“You’re just lucky nobody caught on,” Martin says, at the moment that Tim decides to seal his mouth over his cunt, and the sudden heat and gentle pressure makes him go breathy at the end of the sentence. He pushes, involuntarily, against Tim’s jaw, lets out a little breath of shock.

Tim hums, a pleasant little rumble against Martin’s dick. Martin grabs for the shelf to have something to hold on to, hikes one leg up as far as he can to give Tim more room. It’s hard, with his trousers still around his knees. He worries he’s going to slide off his perch and knock Tim over. Then Tim’s tongue parts Martin’s lips and he feels it against his entrance and gasps, gripping the shelf so hard that it rattles and a bottle of something falls over with a hollow plastic thud.

“Easy,” Tim says, pulling back for just a minute. He pushes gently on Martin’s thighs to spread them just a little bit more, swipes his tongue across his fingers and slides them down to replace his mouth, the tips working inside him just enough that Martin whimpers, hears the telltale sound of his slick finally making an appearance. “There we go,” says Tim, almost like he’s proud, and Martin feels his whole body go hot.

He makes a little choked noise as Tim leans his head down to kiss the spot just above his dick, and Tim’s eyes roll up toward him. “Hmm?” he says.

“Please,” Martin whimpers. It’s embarrassing how quickly Tim can make him go like this, all jelly and trembling knees, with just a few fingers and his tongue. 

“Please what?” Tim says, grinning.

“Oh, fuck you. Please?”

Tim laughs. “Okay, okay. Since you asked me nicely.”

He slides his fingers in even further without warning and, at the same time, seals his mouth again over Martin’s dick, laving slowly up against it with his tongue, and again Martin reacts instantly, clenching around his fingers, knocking something else off the shelf. Tim fucks him slowly, agonizingly slowly, dragging his fingers in and out, refusing to crook them in the way Martin likes just yet, the tip of his tongue flitting in under his dick and lifting it up, sucking gently against the head. Martin reaches down with his other hand to fist it in Tim’s hair, pushing his head further down, letting his own head fall back. Overhead he sees the lightbulb chain swinging gently back and forth. He watches it. Tim picks up the pace with his fingers, slowly sliding in a third, and the stretch makes Martin gasp softly, roll his hips down on them. Tim’s tongue is doing lazy figure eights on his cock, steady and consistent pressure.

He tries not to make any noise, fearful that anyone passing by could hear, though of course no one is up here at this hour. Most of them are still back in the library, working, eating the leftover Indian. He wonders if they wonder where they’ve gone. If any of them suspect. He imagines them talking about it under their breath in the shelves.  _ Is Stoker fucking Blackwood?  _

Yes, actually, Stoker  _ is _ fucking Blackwood. He’s doing a fabulous job of it. He may have flirted with half the Research team over their tikka masala, but it’s Martin he’s eating out upstairs. Not any of them.

Tim’s tongue slides down between his folds, probes at his entrance where his fingers are sliding in and out, totally wet now, and Martin gives a little high-pitched moan, his hips circling fruitlessly, looking for pressure on his dick. Tim shushes him, which makes him flush, if possible, even hotter than before, and starts to bend his fingers, putting weight on the spot inside him that makes his knees buckle, and Martin grabs desperately for Tim’s shoulders, trying to keep himself upright without losing any of that delicious push.

Tim pauses long enough to look up at him and grin. His mouth is wet and Martin feels the first hot shudder of an orgasm in his belly. “You gonna come on my face?” Tim says. 

“Oh,” Martin whines, as Tim plants his face back down among Martin’s black curls, probing and sucking at his dick, pulling it into his mouth, and then he crooks his fingers and drags them just right and, well, yeah, he supposes, he is going to come on Tim’s face, because it’s happening, and there’s no stopping it now. It blooms hot in his stomach and down his thighs and he spasms, going vice-tight around Tim’s fingers, feeling a little gush of warmth over them.

He stuffs his sleeve into his mouth to keep from crying out, and he’s lucky Tim does all that snowshoeing and rowing and can keep him upright, because his legs certainly can’t anymore. Tim fingers him all the way through it, still tongueing his cock, wringing out little bursts until Martin feels raw and sore in his mouth, and then he finally leans back, a string of saliva leading precariously from his lips to Martin’s cunt, and draws out his fingers. 

Martin exhales shakily, slides down a little from the boxes against the wall. Tim catches him under the armpits and helps him off his perch, looking smug and self-satisifed. He snatches a kiss, though his face is wet with slick and saliva and Martin recoils, and then laughs, mussing Martin’s hair with a fond hand.

“How’d I do?” he says, kissing Martin’s cheek this time, still bearing most of Martin’s weight against him. 

Martin tries to think of something sarcastic to say in return, but his head is still reeling a little. He shakes it, reaches down clumsily for his underwear. Tim leans over his head for a package of wet wipes from a huge box of them on a shelf, and Martin finds himself laughing breathlessly. 

He lets Tim wipe him down between his legs and help him get his clothes back up, and watches Tim clean off his hands and mouth while he gets his belt back on. They’re mostly quiet while they right themselves, and Tim shoves the soiled wipes into a tied-off bag of trash just inside the door. All evidence disposed of.

“D’you want me to--?” Martin manages, eventually, pulling his sweater back down over his waist. He still feels warm and a little wet; there’s something shameful and more than a little hot about it, the sensation of being newly fucked-out just underneath his clothes, where no one can see.

Tim shakes his head. “Nah, don’t worry.” He cocks his head, and now that his mouth is clean Martin leans in to kiss him for real. Tim nudges Martin’s nose with his when they part, and when he smiles the skin around his eyes crinkles a little, charmingly. “What you  _ can  _ do is come back to mine when we’re done with this stupid inventory shit.”

Martin smiles back, bashfully. “Sure,” he says. “Sure, yeah. Be nice.”

He leaves the closet first, detours to the restroom so that they don’t come back together. The Research team would be suspicious. In the mirror, he catches himself smiling at the thought of it.

Sex might not be  _ Martin’s  _ exercise of choice, but damn if he isn’t going to get a workout in tonight.


End file.
